Weep no more, little love-notes, your shoebox homes are safe from Dewey's decimals.
I have found a prettier way to index.
Brotherly love at Ana Clara. Dad and Becco with un perro salchicha and smiles, summertime.
NOTHING THAT IS COMPLETE BREATHES.
I have a new mantra on my desktop… took this photo at the pumpkin patch in the Hamptons last year. The quote is from an incredible little book I randomly picked up off the shelf at V Spot. It’s called Voices, a James Merrill translation of Antonio Porchia’s aphorisms, which as far as I can tell may be more rightly called poetry. I’d never heard of him (and when I dragged my Dad to V Spot for a smoky uncomfortable brunch and look-see at the little chapbook, found out Dad hadn’t either), but apparently he’s kind of a big deal. Born in Italy, lived in Buenos Aires from the early 1910’s, i.e. my Grandfather’s childhood years. In the book’s introduction there is some question as to whether Porchia was a potter or a carpenter, possibly he was both. Certainly a lot of the aphorisms take clay as their central image, so I’m leaning in that direction. Anyway Porchia was a bit of an autodidact, with not so much exposure to the contemporary literary world, but its luminaries were very taken with him. They tried to prove he was untainted by au courant influences, and marveled at Argentina’s homegrown savant from afar. In the lunchtime quiet at V Spot, so many of the quotes spoke to me, I just had to write them down, and in the time it took me to finish my California burger I had a two-page scroll full of Porchia…
lucky: Having my Dad to organize a scavenger hunt. This was my first birthday party in CSH :)
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ee cummings
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in spite of everything
which breathes and moves, since Doom
(with white longest hands
neatening each crease)
will smooth entirely our minds
—before leaving my room
i turn, and(stooping
through the morning)kiss
this pillow, dear
where our heads lived and were.
baby monkey, backwards on a sail, baby monkey!
Each summer we dreaded the self-conscious photo shoot in Punta, an hour clustered together on a log in a party dress and the grass tickling your ankles. All the grownups were determined to see our beautiful smiles. But smiles vanished under the flashbulb of the meticulous Teddy, local photographer extraordinaire. Man was dull and old as salt.
